Silence has been so present in my life over the past nine years that I’ve come to call this period The Years of Silence. It was never planned. The silence I now write about appeared like an old acquaintance when my wife, Grace, and I moved from Davao, Philippines, to Spain in 2016. Since then, it has taken up such an ample space in our lives that we’ve grown accustomed to days passing quietly and pleasantly into one another.
For me, silence has always been a natural part of life, something I instinctively value. But for Grace, who was born and raised in a densely populated district of Davao, the phenomenon was completely unfamiliar when she arrived in Spain. Even though we first settled in a lively small town on the Costa Tropical, she found it disturbingly quiet. She was truly put to the test when, six months later, we spent three months on El Hierro, the smallest of the Canary Islands, in a house surrounded by a barren lava landscape, where only the wind and the occasional cry of a seagull deepened the silence even further. Fortunately, she embraced the opportunity and opened herself to it. Half a year later, when we lived in a small cabin overlooking a stunning Norwegian fjord, she praised the silence in an article she wrote here.
There are moments when silence is more than the absence of sound. It becomes a state of deep presence. In Christian mysticism, it is often referred to as inner prayer, a deep listening for God’s voice within the heart. In Buddhism, silence is the very gateway to insight and compassion. The Jewish psychoanalyst Erich Fromm wrote that the ability to be silent with another person, without needing to fill the space, is a sign of genuine love and maturity.
Psychoanalysis teaches us that humans need silence to process inner conflicts. Without time for reflection and integration, the noise outside us merely echoes the chaos within. Many modern therapies, from mindfulness to existential psychotherapy, have rediscovered this ancient truth: silence can indeed be a powerful healing force. That’s why we must learn to protect it, wherever we may be.
I had none of this in mind when we moved to Spain. But over time, we gravitated toward places where nature speaks and the pace is slow.
It has been a meaningful journey toward silence, especially for Grace, who grew up surrounded by the sounds of barking dogs, crowing roosters, traffic noise, and karaoke at full volume, almost morning and night. At first, she was restless. She needed music, chatter, and background noise to feel secure. But gradually, she came to value the opposite. Now, quiet moments are meditative, not empty. Silence has become an inner necessity.
However, we now face a new challenge. We’re moving back to Davao in the autumn, and silence isn’t exactly something you can pack and bring with you. Or can we?
Donald Winnicott once wrote, “In a safe and non-overstimulating environment, the true self has the opportunity to emerge. In a society filled with noise and external pressure, this space must be actively created and protected.”
Where we’ll be living on the outskirts of Davao, the hours before dawn are quiet. Just a few dogs barking and distant roosters crowing. When the light begins to filter in, I plan to go outside and sweep the silent road in front of our house before the neighbors leave for work. After that, a short walk to the local market before the heat sets in, and then breakfast with a view of a lush grove where small birds forage for food. That is my plan to protect the need Winnicott so beautifully pointed to. And I’m sure Grace will find her method.
Because once silence has taken root in you, it will ask for space.
It gives me room to hear myself—perhaps even nature, eternity—and allows my thoughts to grow lighter.
Featured image © Eldar Einarson
